The Scent of Home
by songbardbird
Summary: A contemplative piece, exploring the characters in Night’s Child, and how the scent of those they love the most affects them. Moira's, Morgan's, Hunter's, and Colm's feelings are all involved. Chapter 4, the final chapter is up!
1. Colm

The Scent of Home

A/N: I attribute the series Sweep to reawakening my spirituality. A few years ago, I was learning more and more about Wicca and considering it as a possible religious choice. I was randomly looking at books in the teen section, and I just pulled the first book of Sweep off the shelf. I didn't even read the back of the book. Imagine my surprise… :)

Summary: A contemplative piece, exploring the characters in Night's Child, and how the scent of those they love the most affects them.

Disclaimer: If I owned the characters of Sweep, a certain blonde-haired boy would be at my beck and call…too bad...

Chapter One: Colm

To Moira, he always smelled like wood.

She remembered when she was very young, a great storm had raged through their tiny town of Cobh. She was only seven and shook with fear, pressed up hard against her mother. Morgan's face had been white and shone with sweat; a fine, slick substance that dripped down into Moira's hair. She kept muttering protection spells as Colm raced around their house, gathering the pets, shoving a scared, hissing Dagda towards his wife and child, searching for candles. Black rain pelted outside and although Moira had just begun to discover her magick, she felt as if this was the Goddess herself, hell-bent on destroying all life. Morgan could sense that the storm wasn't magickal, but that didn't quell her fear, and although all she could feel was nature's will and not wrath, she couldn't help cower, as if a black wave was upon them. A screaming wind streamed through Moira's mind, and her voice joined it. A loud CRACK reverberated through them all, and Moira felt as if she had been ripped in two.

But just like that, the storm was over. The clouds parted and the wind slowed, along with Moira's heartbeat. Shallows rays of sunlight fell into their home, and Dagda tentatively pawed at one, unsure, perhaps believing it would turn into a shadow and swallow him whole. The family made their way outside to survey the damage and as she peered from her mother's arms, Moira felt a shudder ripple through them all.

A huge, beautiful oak tree, one that Moira played in, was broken, collapsed on the ground. Half of it, the base, was standing straight and erect, jutting from the ground and pointing its splinters to the sky. The other half seemed to melt into the earth, destroyed. The very top of tree, the branches that Moira had time and again tried to reach while climbing, lay only a few feet away from her. She choked back a sob; she may have been young, but she was old enough to know and feel loss.

"Thank the Goddess it did not hit the house," Morgan said, her tone low and sad. She surveyed the fallen tree with grief, but also relief that the Goddess had taken this life and not theirs.

"Aye." Colm replied gravely. After coming to the conclusion that the tree was beyond saving, he went to fetch his axe.

Morgan left Moira with Colm so as to survey the damage to the rest of the town and to check on the other coven members. Moira sat on the steps, still wary of the pink sky and watched her father. He was working hard, chopping and breaking the wood so that it could be used to feed the appetites of the many fires they enjoyed during the winter. Moira knew it was all part of the cycle. The Goddess had taken away something, taken away its life, but now her family could gain from it. Life from death. When he had done all that he could do, he took in a deep breath and set the axe on the ground. The sweat had served as a glue, and particles of wood and dust were plastered to his skin. Moira felt a giddy rush of love for her parent, one that sometimes only small children are capable of, and she ran to him. He scooped her up into his arms and she burrowed her face in his neck, smelling his sweat and warmth, smelling the earth, smelling wood. This was her father. Her da.

He had always been fascinated with wood. As Moira grew up, he would make her and Morgan things. Before Moira had been born, he had shaped a beautiful cradle out of maple and fixed it into a simple, yet elegant design. Katrina, his mother, had been the one to spell it, carve into it the necessary runes of protection, growth, and health. But while Morgan was in the hospital, still heavy with the grief and anguish of losing Hunter and unaware of the child she was carrying, Colm steadily and slowly created the things his family would need.

Moira remembered he would always be covered in something; dust, dirt, wood shavings. Morgan would tease him and brush the loose scraps from his broad shoulders, sometimes pretending there were more, exaggerating and stood amused as Colm rolled his eyes and smiled.

Moira's greatest joy had been the small figurines he had carved for her. Whenever her father was bored he would whittle tiny animals out of leftover wood, almost without any effort at all. Sometimes they would be real animals, deer that lived in the woods, one of their cats, or other animals that Moira had only seen in zoos. Other times, he would carve imaginary and magickal animals; unicorns, dragons, centaurs. Animals that he made up in his own mind.

As Moira grew older, she found these gifts embarrassing and childish, and soon her father ceased to create them for her. After he had died, she dug through all of her old things and found them all. The unicorns horn had been rubbed so many times it had softened into a short nub. The giraffe didn't have any legs. The fairie had broken in two. But Moira gathered all of these precious items into her arms and cried. They now resided under her bed, and whenever she missed her da, those funny little animals comforted her.

Following his death, no one went in the work shed. Sometimes, Morgan would burst in, grabbing a saw or hammer off the bench and then bolted out, the fresh death of Colm too much to bear. When Moira finally worked up the courage to enter, she almost fainted. The entire room, the tools, the bench, the table and chairs, the…air; it all smelled like her father. If she had closed her eyes and brain, and opened her heart, she would have sworn he was standing right next to her. When school got to be too much, or if she had just gotten into a fight with her ma, or if Ian Delaney ignored her _again_, she would run into this place and sit, looking at the unfinished projects her father would never be able to complete. And although her heart broke a little every time she crossed that threshold, it healed a little more when she left.

To Moira, he smelled like wood.

To Moira, he smelled like Earth.

A/N Well, thanks for reading! Stay tuned for updates, there's a lot more where this came from. I have no idea if this was any good, and I want to improve anything for the next chapters so PLEASE Review! Chapter 2 will be Morgan!


	2. Morgan

The Scent of Home

Summary: A contemplative piece, exploring the characters in Night's Child, and how the scent of those they love the most affects them.

Disclaimer: If I owned the characters of Sweep, I would totally kick Iona's BUTT….but I don't.

A/N: I'm kinda bummed I haven't gotten any reviews, but I totally understand. I never review either; I'm always too lazy. :) Anyhoo, enjoy Chapter 2!

Chapter Two: Morgan

To Hunter, she always smelled like apples.

He told her that once, and she scoffed. Apples, she said, are boring. They are clean and white and so, so sweet. (She stuck out her tongue, made a face. Hunter almost jumped her right there in the kitchen) Sickly sweet. Apples remind her of a caged homemaker, slave to her husband and children. Not that there's anything wrong with that, she said quickly, glancing sideways at him.

He had smiled and agreed softly. The idea of Morgan being his wife, _his_ homemaker…he could barely keep that goofy grin off his face. Of course, he would never treat her like a slave and he would be damned if his kids would either. She would be his goddess, always, completely.

But the funny thing was that when he thought of apples, he wasn't thinking of the kind that soccer moms put peanut butter on. He was thinking of the kind that fell from strong, tall trees; sensuous, firm, over-powering. They were red and ripe, and when you bit into them, the juices running down your mouth, you almost collapsed.

He told her this, and she blushed. Hunter, I'm not red or ripe, she said. And then, pointedly, looking down at her chest: Definitely not ripe.

It was Hunter's turn to blush.

Of course, there were no secrets from Iona. It was one of the pure pleasures of having his true name, she had said while teasing memories from his head. He sobbed as she stole from him the memories of Linden, of grief, of Morgan…of the girls he had before Morgan. Iona had cackled, her eyes glinting green.

You're lucky she's dead or I would have tortured her with these, she said.

A part of him had to believe she was lying.

For some reason, Iona couldn't get over the apples. She thought it was funny; foolish. Hunter ignored her and believed she was simply jealous. Jealous that no one, _no one_, would ever love her like that. And of course, she knew he thought this, and punished him brutally. Teased him with visions of Morgan, forced petals of apple tree flowers to rain down upon him, turned rocks into apples. He went about the island like a madman, desperate, scooping up the jagged stones turned into soft fruit, smelled them, tried to devour them.

He almost broke his jaw.

And even though with every morning, he woke up and those piles of apples had turned back into sad, gray things, he kept them by him. They turned into bigger piles, then turned into mounds, then turned into hills. A few more years, and they may have turned into mountains.

He remembered a perfect, crisp fall day, when he and Morgan had gone apple-picking. They had driven a few hours out of Widow's Vale to the apple orchards and Hunter felt as if the Goddess was smiling down on them. Morgan wore tight jeans, a turtleneck, and some kind of poofy vest thing. It was all lost on him. Hunter had hoped he looked acceptable; dark pants and a faded sweater. He had never been very self-conscious about his appearance, but Morgan brought that out in him. As they walked, her cheeks flushed slightly from the exercise and the cool air, and her eyes were bright and receptive.

This was one of their first dates and they were both nervous and awkward. When he had shut Morgan's car door after she had gotten in, he almost shut her hair—and her fingers—as well. She kept bringing up all the ways to use mint, in tea, in spells, in potions, and babbled on about it for two hours. He humored her, knowing she was nervous and god knows he didn't know what to say either.

But when they got to the orchard, they both calmed a little. Somehow, Morgan's hand found his, and his heart swelled. The baskets they carried to the trees were large and rough and Hunter offered to carry hers (Goddess knows he would have carried a hundred for her) but she refused. She was stubborn, his Morgan. Stubborn and strong.

They half-heartedly picked apples and chatted. Neither of their baskets were close to full. Then, Morgan's head snapped up and her eyes widened. Hunter was going on about some stupid story involving a bad spell and no clothes when he noticed Morgan wasn't listening anymore. He mentally kicked himself, and then went to join her. She blushed and apologized sheepishly but pointed.

I just need that apple, she said.

He looked up and saw the one she was pointing to. It was beautiful, shining and red. There wasn't a mark on it and it gleamed in the blinding sun. Morgan certainly wasn't tall enough, so Hunter, hoping to seem chivalrous or something else ridiculous, cautiously climbed the branches and plucked the apple from its branch.

Of course, he was concentrating too hard on what he looked like to Morgan on the ground and wasn't paying attention to his footing. He flopped and fell out of the tree, like a baby bird learning to fly, nearly landing on Morgan. But he still had the apple and she laughed good-naturedly, brushing the dirt and bark off of his shoulders. He handed it to her and she thanked him wordlessly. He gave her a quizzical, almost teasing look.

It was singing to me, she said simply.

He picked up an apple from his basket and took out a pocket knife, slicing it horizontally, completely in half. She watched as he separated the two pieces and showed her the smooth inside of one. She gasped as she saw five seeds arranged in a star position.

Apples are believed to be a Goddess fruit, he said.

He took a bite and offered one to her, and she slowly sunk her teeth in its skin, smiling with her mouth full when a trickle of juice dribbled down her chin. He used the pad of his thumb to wipe it away and both of their eyes flashed with desire.

In some forgotten time, in some forgotten hotel room, after Hunter and Morgan had made love for the countless time, she lay asleep in his arms. He stroked her back and kissed her on the top of her head. She smelled, of course, like apples. He could never explain it to her, but these weren't the boring, housewife apples she had so detested years ago. They were hot, heady, almost spicy. They were no chili pepper or wasabi sauce, but they made his pulse thrum and singed his tongue slightly. The lit a flame in him he didn't know he had and burned in him a delicious and wonderful feeling.

This memory would possibly keep him alive during the next sixteen years.

Morgan stirred and wriggled her body closer to him. Soon, he would have to catch a plane to wherever the hell he was going next and she would return to Cobh. But for now, they were close and warm and no sick child or misguided witch was going to separate them. He pulled the covers up a little more, and he felt his eyes cloud when he realized Morgan was smiling in her sleep.

To Hunter, she smelled like apples.

To Hunter, she smelled like Fire.

A/N: Well that's chapter two! Thanks for reading and I would LOVE some reviews. Thanks! The next chapter will probably be posted in a couple of days, and it will be Morgan again.


	3. Morgan 2

A/N: Yay! I got reviews! This next chapter is dedicated to "Kasabe" and "MorganNiall.NB" for reviewing me. I _know_ other people have been reading this, I've checked the number of hits. So if you're reading this, why don't you be super friendly and leave me some support/suggestions. Seriously, I will REALLY appreciate it. Thanks:) On to chapter three!

Chapter Three: Morgan

To Colm, she always smelled like vanilla.

The first time his mother introduced him to Morgan, all he could think about was Yule. Every Yule, the entire coven got together and made cookies. Each house was crammed full of happy witches, relishing the warmth their crowded bodies created as they fought against the chilling breath of the Goddess outside. Although many believed, non-witches and blood alike, that "Christmas cookies" were a "Christian" tradition, the coven that would soon reawaken as Belwicket had decided they would have any tradition they wanted to. As a boy, Colm wouldn't have been surprised if they started spinning driedals.

But as the years went on, Belwicket became set in their traditions (a little too set, some believed) and "Yule" cookies were integrated as an important part of celebrating the Sabbat. Colm's job was to help Katrina mix the ingredients.

The butter and flour were easy enough to come by. Belwicket wasn't as behind in the times then, and they bought butter and flour, along with other dairy products, from a neighboring farm town. Sugar was bought as well, and eggs were laid by local hens. Even the special herbs that families put in their cookies to make them wholly unique and "witchy" were grown in gardens. But vanilla was another story.

It was impossible to grow vanilla beans in their tiny town, in the middle of Scotland, so they ordered vanilla beans from a trusted Mexican _bruja _who threw in a couple of protection spells along the way. They were always shipped to Katrina, and Colm consistently knew when they arrived, for the box was small but colored a deep red and smelled of spice and liquor.

To make the vanilla extract, he would take the long vanilla beans out of the purple cloth that covered them and cut four or five, slicing them the long way. He then filled a jar with just the right amount of rum and let them sit for about five weeks. He was only given this job after he promised his mum he would never taste the rum, not even a sip. One time, he sneakily tried to take a swallow, just to see what it would feel like. Little did he know, Katrina had spelled the rum just in case and the rest of the day his skin was tinted a brilliant purple!

But after the strenuous job of mixing and stirring the batter, it was always incredibly rewarding to pour the vanilla, _his_ vanilla, in. It was almost directly swallowed by the flour/butter/sugar mixture, and sunk in like water. But the cookies tasted different to him, and, while standing next to his mum and pulling out batch after batch of cookies heavy with the scent of vanilla, he felt incredibly happy and safe.

This was precisely the same feeling he had when standing next to Morgan. Her scent drifted over to him, wafting like summer air.

He loved her immediately.

He loved her when he first laid eyes on her. As she conversed with his mother, skeptical and curious.

He loved her when he sensed her unyielding and incredible power.

He loved her when he saw her with that blonde witch.

He loved her even though it was so apparent that she was completely, totally, ridiculously, undeniably, and passionately in love with that aforementioned witch.

He loved her when she cut off all of her hair and curled in a hospital room.

When she wouldn't stop crying for days.

When she was pregnant with a child that wasn't his.

When she agreed to marry him; and he was afraid it was only because of the spell his mother had cast.

Still, he loved her.

Completely, totally, ridiculously, undeniably, and passionately.

His favorite memory was teaching Moira how to make vanilla extract. He showed her how to slice the beans, and taught her the exact amount of rum to use. Morgan even used the same spell that Katrina had used, to make sure Moira wouldn't stray. Fortunately, his daughter (and yes, he considered her every part his daughter) was a little bit more well-behaved that Colm had been.

Morgan's hair had grown out again, full and long against her back. Colm came up behind her and gently lifted it off her shoulders. I'm so glad you have long hair, he said. Too many women have been cutting theirs lately.

She visibly stiffened and pulled away. As he peered into her unfocused eyes, he saw a hint of pain and grief. He tried to cast his senses and feel her emotions, but all he could make out was a dull, burning sadness along with a great steel wall he, by now, was quite familiar with.

Just an old memory, she said. And he dropped it.

Of course they had made love.

He loved her completely and she loved him in her own slow, trusting way. She already believed they had made a child together, and he could not tell her the truth. Although he did feel uneasy lying to her, he knew the truth would only crush her more than she already had been. When she had been lying in the hospital room, trying to kill herself. Trying to drown herself in the tub. Smother herself with a pillow. Strip herself of magick.

There's no point, she had wailed, clawing. There's no point.

It took months, but they had made love. He couldn't believe he had been given this gift; this goddess, this Morgan.

Every afterwards, without fail, she would curl away from him. Her soul, her essence, her body would refuse to face him. He could feel her guilt coming off in waves; guilt to a dead lover that would never come back. She would let him hold her, yes, and he felt light and free. He smelled her hair and all he could think about were Yule cookies.

Their love wasn't torrential or deep. It wasn't dramatic or heart-breaking or even that passionate. To him, their love was constant and obvious, shallow but beautiful. It was safe. He always felt incredibly at ease with her; he always felt safe.

The last thing he drank before dying was a quick cup of coffee from a local shop. He spontaneously asked the server to throw in a couple vanilla beans.

To Colm, she smelled like vanilla.

To Colm, she smelled like Air.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I have an idea for one last chapter, but I'm not sure if I'm going to write it or not. Convince me otherwise:)


	4. Hunter

A/N: Okay peep-a-deeps. Here's the last chapter. I hope you enjoy and feel free to drop a review and make me feel EXTRA special. Thanks to "Ashley" for reviewing me. This chapter's dedicated to you!

Summary: A contemplative piece, exploring the characters in Night's Child, and how the scent of those they love the most affects them.

Disclaimer: If I owned the characters of Sweep, I would make Alyce adopt Cal, so he wouldn't have been raised by Selene…too bad I don't.

Chapter Four: Hunter

To Morgan, he always smelled like mint.

He was sick once. He had been working too hard (he always worked too hard) and even though his temperature broke at 102, he still drove 179 miles to see her. The New Charter was setting up and Hunter had been traveling to many new places. From Saudi Arabia to San Francisco, they had to make their presence known to the disgruntled witches that weren't happy with the council as well as the witches who vowed to break the rules of both the Council and the New Charter.

They had recently dealt with a powerful and dangerous witch called Eve, who had been ruthless in her attempt to escape. She almost killed two of Hunter's colleagues, and had cursed the whole lot of them. It was quite obvious that she was set in her ways, so they stripped her of her powers. There was no reason to use one of the bubble spells.

Of course, it was a horrible experience and the day after everyone who had participated in the ceremony felt sick. But as their illness wore on, Hunter realized that this was no ordinary side-effect. Working with the others, he discovered that Eve had sent out a dark spell that would come into effect only if they stripped her of her magick. There was no cure; they simply had to wait it out.

But Hunter wouldn't wait it out.

And when he showed up at the motel room Morgan had rented on the outskirts of Cobh, he all but collapsed on the seedy bedspread and she cried out. She gathered some herbs that she always kept with her in her work bag and forced him to lie down, positioning his head on the lumpy gray pillow.

Even after he had explained the entire situation to her, she still scoffed and gently swabbed his forehead with a cool cloth.

You are utterly a fool, Hunter Niall, she had said, smiling slightly but looking worried.

But you love me, he teased, his voice faint.

She looked at him seriously, taking out four or five mint leaves and placing them on his burning forehead. He closed his eyes and sighed, as he relished the cool touch of the leaves to his face and the warm touch of her hands to the rest of his body that was wracked with chills.

Always, she said softly.

His fever was gone in an hour and when he woke up, she was right beside him.

He had been the one that taught her how to make tea. It was when she had still been in high school and was still furiously learning the names and properties of plants and herbs. It was early spring and the snow was turning into mush. Warm rain was pelting down on the roofs and the gutters were overflowing with dirty water. It fell and sploshed onto the yards beneath and mixed with the gray snow, turning it into a cold lava mixture that traveled slowly but surely into the concrete gutters.

Morgan, for the millionth time, twirled her long hair back into a loose braid and looked down at the outfit Mary K had expertly chosen for her. A dark green corduroy skirt that showed a little bit of knee and warm brown sweater that made her eyes look like dark chocolate.

Trust me, Mary K had said. He'll want to eat your eyes when he sees you.

Ew, said Morgan.

Morgan's parents were out to dinner with some friends, and Mary K was at a movie. Twenty minutes before Hunter came over, Morgan made the mistake of baking a dozen blueberry muffins. She took the hint from one of Mary K's favorite movie "Clueless", where Alicia Silverstone's character states: "Whenever a boy comes, you should always have something baking."

They were a disaster from the beginning. She accidentally measured in two tablespoons of salt instead of two teaspoon and when she cracked the eggs, bits of shell mixed in with the batter. She tried to pick as many of them out as she could, but she wasn't very successful. But it was no matter, for after sitting in the bathroom for 10 minutes trying to do her make up (she had insisted to Mary K she could do it by herself) she had forgotten all about the muffins. The smoke alarm was beeping frantically when she dumped the burned mess down the garbage disposal. She then rummaged around in the closet until she found a half-bottle of febreeze and almost used the rest of it to drown the air, to smother the smell of smoke. When Hunter arrived, the entire house smelled like burnt flowers.

If he noticed, he didn't say anything.

He stood behind her, and she shivered. His cool hands enclosed her warmer ones and guided her fists down, while they both crushed the dried mint leaves with an elegant marble pestle Hunter had brought. They added more spices and herbs; dried cranberries, sage, cinnamon, even more mint. His knees were pressed against her thighs and when she made a wry comment, Hunter's whispy laughter in her ear almost made Morgan's knees buckle.

While they were both enjoying a cup of their freshly brewed tea, Morgan asked him what kind of tea they had just made. Hunter's gaze faltered and he looked at the floor for a moment. Then, he looked at Morgan out of the corner of his eyes, a sheepish smile played across his face.

It's tea for, well…lovers, he said.

Morgan's nose turned bright red.

He silently set his cup down on the worn linoleum counter and Morgan looked at him. His eyes gave nothing away, but his nose flared slightly and his lips parted. Before she even had time to set her tea down, he had pinned her gently against the refrigerator. Magnets fell like the rain outside, and her wrist hit the fridge door. Hunter kissed her in a way that was both passionate and tender and she felt like she was drowning slowly. She tasted the tea. She tasted his love. She tasted strength and fear and devotion. She tasted mint and ice. She tasted the organs that resided under his bones and the bones that shaped his skin and the skin that was pressed against hers. She knew then that she was in it for the long haul.

They were making love.

Somehow they had ended up in Paris. A somewhat upscale hotel room with a balcony that faced the Eiffel. Its lights glittered on their bodies as they moved together. The top of Morgan's head was pressed into the soft down pillow and her smooth column of a neck was exposed to Hunter. The sheet, damp with their sweat, was wrapped around their torsos and Morgan's breath quickened as the warm feeling in the pit of her stomach grew. She was on fire; her tongue was a candle and her hands, clawing Hunter's back and bunching into fists, were balls of flame. Her eyes were smoldering and her heart was the sun.

But he was her other half. He cooled her flame and his breath was like frost. When she kissed him, she felt a chilled river flow through her. When she looked into his eyes while they made love, she saw them as a piercing blue, clear as a perfect sky.

When she was six months pregnant with Moira, every time she smelled mint, she threw up.

She told Colm that it was just morning sickness and he believed her. But only Katrina knew that Morgan had burned every single mint leaf in their house until her eyelids stung and her throat burned.

She refused to make or drink tea for lovers with Colm, and he didn't press her.

Sixteen years later, she lay engulfed in Hunter's arms. Moira was out with that Delaney boy, whom Morgan had grudgingly approved of. As Hunter's fingers gently made abstract patterns on her stomach, she felt that familiar rush of desire and felt like a silly teenager again. She smiled in spite of herself, and her and Hunter recited memories to each other. They were a perfect fit; Hunter's body perfectly framed hers and his chin propped delicately on the top of her head. The years apart had changed them, certainly, but in the end, they were still made for each other.

Every day, even though Moira still pretended to throw up in her oatmeal, Hunter wrapped his arms around Morgan, she went up on her tiptoes, he bent his head down, and, like always, they met in the middle.

To Morgan, he smelled like mint.

To Morgan, he smelled like Water.

A/N: Well, that's it kids. I had a blast writing it and I hope to be writing a few more in the future. Please leave me a review if you liked it. I'll dedicate the first chapter of my next fic to you, if you do!


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